


Different Endings

by Ramzes



Series: Shades and Mirrors [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi, Spoilers for Book: The World of Ice and Fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:27:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramzes/pseuds/Ramzes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two kings, two princes, two foreign brides. Two fates that started out so similar, yet choice would grant them different endings. Chapter 5: Drawing Up the Balance Sheet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dragonstone

" **In the 184th year since Aegon's Conquest, Aegon IV, the Unworthy, at last let go of life. His son and heir, Prince Daeron, departed Dragonstone within the fortnight…"**

Dragonstone was cold, windy, gloomy, and always smelling of smoke. Everything Myriah Martell was not used to. Everything she disliked. Of course, she was too well-bred to say so but Daeron could tell it by the way she spoke of the sun and sand of the distant land of her birth. His wife had not brought a great dowry but her demeanor carried confidence and pride, as if her very presence was an honour to the Seven Kingdoms, as if by wedding her to Daeron, Dorne had granted the realm a great mercy. _That might be the key for joining Dorne to the rest of the kingdoms_ , Daeron thought. _Never trying to break their pride._ Of course, his father hated her for her pride – to him, the late King had saddled the family with a savage, vastly inferior match. Daeron knew for sure that Myriah's fertility had dismayed her goodfather a great deal.

It had been a mistake to bring her here. _What was I thinking_ , he berated himself even as he lifted Baelor up to let him see Dragonmont better. His firstborn was entranced with the pale grey mist reaching for the sky. Aerys stirred impatiently in his nursemaid's arms, reaching with his tiny hands to catch the wisps, his eyes huge with wonder. _Why did I decide that she'd want to live here? She'll probably get sick before the first moon is over._ Of course, he couldn't really do anything about it right now. Returning to King's Landing was out of question. It was the season of storms, Myriah's time was near, and the idea of having his wife and two children tossed up by the whims of whatever tempest happened upon them was not an option. The chance of their third being born in the clutches of a storm was very real should they head back.

"A volcano," Myriah murmured, awed. "I've never seen a volcano."

Her hand went to her belly but while once, with their first child, Daeron would startle and ask whether everything was all right, he could now say that this was only one of the times she was trying to calm down the kicking babe.

"I am sorry," he said, taking in her gaunt face, the bruises under her eyes, her great fatigue. "I should have never brought you here. I just thought…"

He had seen it as a chance. Now, at becoming the heir to the Iron Throne, Dragonstone was his. He could learn here, prepare for the day he'd become king – a very different one to the ruler his father was already shaping out as. They could start again here, only him, this beautiful stranger who was his wife, the children that bound them together, and the people they chose. He and Myriah could get to know each other in a way that had proved impossible in the pot of intrigues and bad will that was King's Landing. Still, until now the city, and they, had been under Viserys' strict codes of behavior. But now?

Myriah seemed to have read his thoughts. She took her wool glove off and laced her cold fingers through his. "Let's stay here, my heart. We'll never be able to have a home of our own between the walls of the Red Keep, not while your father rules."

"Yes!" Baelor piped in. "Stay with vol… vul…"

"Volcano," Daeron helped him and took him down. Baelor loved being lifted to be shown things but he insisted that he always walked on his own two feet. Daeron gripped his son's hand tightly because the boy could run surprisingly fast for a two-year-old. Then, he turned to Myriah. "Let's go," he said. "Let's go home."

* * *

**When Prince Rhaegar and his new wife chose to take up residence on Dragonstone instead of the Red Keep, rumors flew thick and fast across the Seven Kingdoms.**

When he first brought his bride here, he felt quite uneasy. He was always fond of Dragonstone and he loved spending time here. But he had never thought of actually living here full time. And now, while they were waiting for the boat to come and take them, for no ship this deeply wading could go over the sharp stones blanketing the bottom near the coast, that idea looked especially bad. In some old parchments, there was the hypothesis that there was actually sharpened dragonglass scattered all over the bottom. A legend, of course, a tale meant to catch a child's fancy. But the danger of the teeth of the invisible beast down there was very real.

Rhaegar reached out and arranged the hood around Elia's face. Instinctively, she jerked away from the unfamiliar touch. But her self-control was such that she immediately calmed down and let his clumsy fingers fumble with the sable. The hair beneath it could rival it in lustre _. I am very lucky indeed, to find beauty besides all her other makings_ , the Prince thought. Of course, to him his new wife's wits were her most appealing trait. But a hair flowing like a sunless river and eyes as black as dragonglass were nice additions. Maybe one day, her beauty would touch his heart. He hoped so, although this hadn't happened yet.

She smiled at him with her blue lips. "It's lovely here." Her voice was soft, as if she was trying to protect her throat from the harsh wind trying to blow them away.

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes. He had half-expected her to insist that they return to King's Landing at once. He couldn't blame her. She had had no idea what she had agreed to. But he? Had his desire to be as far away from King's Landing as possible blinded him so much that he had thought it a good idea to bring a sickly woman here? By the colour of her face, or rather lack thereof, he could say that tomorrow, she'd be very ill indeed. And how not? The sunless gloom of the ever damp Dragonstone, with its stones of hell, was the last place a daughter of the desert would choose to be.

"Do you truly think so, Princess?"

Rhaegar swept his eyes from his wife to Jon Connington. The words themselves were innocuous enough, yet there was something in his friend's voice that he disliked. "The Princess is not obliged to tell anyone what she truly thinks… or not," he said sharply. Now, he caught it: Jon had sounded as if he was _interrogating_ Elia and that was something Rhaegar would not condone, friendship or not. He had taken Elia here to protect her from his father. He would not have his own friends disrespecting her. They would have a court of their own here and no one would act with derision against their future queen.

Jon blanched, for Rhaegar, for all his charm, could be as imperial as Aegon the Conqueror himself.

"Come on, my lady," Rhaegar turned to his wife. "The boat is here. Let me assist you."

She smiled once again and headed for the rope-ladder, despite the fact that her frozen limbs weighed her down like leaden. Grimly, Rhaegar thought that in the brief time that had elapsed after their wedding, she had had the chance to get to know his father well enough to brave storms and seas, and declining health just to be as far away from him as possible.

* * *

"Do you want me to send Jon away?" Rhaegar asked when they were finally alone that night. To the moment, she had not expressed any irritation over his friend's behavior but that was not the first time Jon had let her dislike of her show and frankly, Rhaegar was getting tired of rebuking him to no avail.

Elia shook her head and smiled faintly. "No."

He gave her a long look. "Are you sure? He… hasn't been very respectful towards you."

"I am sure," Elia said, inspecting the small dragonglass dragon on a side table. "It isn't something that he can control. And he's your friend. I wouldn't have you losing your friends over me, my lord, as grateful as I am for your willingness to sacrifice on my behalf."

He went to her and caught her small, slim hand. "It's you who's doing the sacrifice, Elia," he said softly. Behind her soft manners and gentle smile, he had already had the chance to feel the steely pride that matched his own. Tolerating Jon probably stung more than she cared to admit but she would do it. _She'll make a good and just queen_ , he thought. Indeed, she was one whom he might, in time, trust with his plans. "I know it isn't a small one. I will not forget it," he promised. "One day, I will repay you as you deserve."

 


	2. Dornish

**Aegon had hated the Dornish and warred against them…**

**... Yet too many men looked upon Baelor's dark hair and eyes and muttered that he was more Martell than Targaryen…**

"Is he going to shut up?" Daeron asked. " _Ever?_ "

His friends among the courtiers who had gathered to accompany him for the newborn's official presentation at court looked just as helpless. They were all his age and Prince Baelor was the first babe they had ever had a contact with since they had outgrew this age themselves. He scared them a little, all red face and angry squeals. Was he in pain? Would he die? After Princess Naerys' struggles in childbed, people were cautious at rejoicing at the birth of a Targaryen child. When they celebrated his first nameday, things might change. But now everyone stared at the tiny being trying to see whether there was something wrong with him.

The wetnurse, a woman with vast experience who had brought over four children of her own, all healthy and happy, clicked her tongue. Young lordlings were not likely to impress her, especially those fretting over nothing. "He will, Your Grace," she said. "When he turns three or four, maybe."

Daeron and Myriah shared a look of horror. Daeron felt very sorry for her. He could find himself other occupations, as far away from the private chambers as possible. Poor Myriah, though, she had to stay around the little squealer for far longer… How could Baelor scream so loudly, anyway? _Where_ did he draw this strength from?

"Think a little!" the woman urged them. "You can say what you want and what he needs. He can only cry. Nothing to worry about."

_Nothing but my hearing_ , Daeron thought because thinking of his hearing was better than thinking of what his father would do at the presentation. Aegon hated Myriah almost as much as he did Daeron – and she had managed to achieve it in less than a year. Now, he hated her thrice more. Daeron fully expected an ugly scene. Baelor was too dark to garner anything but deepest dislike on Aegon's part.

"Are you ready, my lady?" he asked and Myriah took his hand and smiled confidently.

"I am."

In the great throne room, the best of Westerosi nobility had come to gaze upon the youngest prince. As usual, the sight of his grandfather filled Daeron with relief and a feeling of composure. Aegon would never dare do something overly obnoxious with Prince Viserys in attendance.

The King, pale and thin in his simple septon robes, rose from the Iron Throne as soon as they were announced. Aegon made a moue when Baelor actually pointed Myriah at a chair brought for her at the dais, "for you did bring the Seven Kingdoms a great gift, my lady," as he announced staring in the face of the infant who had grown blissfully too tired to cry any more.

"I give you him who will sit the Iron Throne one day," the King announced and a loud cheer went on. Aegon's scowl deepened.

Viserys stared at the babe with something resembling a smile. Naerys drew a hand across her grandson's soft cheek and her eyes welled up. Aegon stared at the infant in disgust and asked, "Is he this black, normally, or do you just never wash him up?"

All around, people gasped at the Prince's rudeness. Daeron was only surprised that his father hadn't thought of something more vicious to say. And then, looking down at his son, he bit back a smile of utter amusement and delight. He had heard that at one point, babes were turning into something akin to mirrors but he had never seen it until now. Baelor was staring right back at his grandfather with the same grimace of disgust Aegon was giving him. _That's a smart boy_ , Daeron thought. _He's a taint on our name and we all hate him._ For the first time, he thought that he and the infant might just get along when Baelor grew up a little.

* * *

**When Prince Rhaegar returned to the Red Keep to present the girl to his own mother and father, Queen Rhaella embraced the babe warmly, but King Aerys refused to touch or hold the child and complained that she "smells Dornish".**

Some people said children had a sixth feeling. If so, Rhaenys was bereft of one. She was cooing and smiling, having no idea that she had left her sheltered life at Dragonstone for a – hopefully – brief sojourn to the capitol of madness. She had cried the first few days of their travel but Rhegar suspected it was just the matter of missing her mother. Rhaenys' crib was placed in Elia's own bedchamber, despite the fact that she could not rise to tend to her newborn in any way. But she often held the child in her own bed, with much patience had found the position that would help Rhaenys suckle as smoothly as possible, and had tried to comfort her when she cried before she would let the servants take care of her. On the one hand, Rhaegar disliked the thought that he had to present the babe at court without her mother, for that would fuel all kind of rumours. His father's sycophants would be only too happy to have the chance to point out just how unworthy a woman Rhaegar had wed. Of course, had Elia died in childbed, many of those would have been only too happy to push their own daughters at him, and to the rest of that crowd, the lucky girl would be just as unworthy, no matter whether she gave him an heir or not, or recover swiftly from childbirth or not.

On the other hand, he was quite relieved that Elia did not have to face the court in this condition. After their decision to take up residence at Dragonstone, his father's dislike of her had only grown. While she was more than capable to hold her own against any man in wits and will, those were not weapons Aerys employed.

"Come on,"Rhaegar sighed and looked at the babe. "It's time. The sooner we go there, the sooner we go home."

Once again, Rhaenys cooed and squirmed in her swaddling. Rhaegar imagined that she was nodding her head in agreement, although he _knew_ it was only his imagination.

Normally, there would have been a great presentation in the throne room with the Great Septon blessing the child and the entire court attending. Rhaegar remembered it all too well from Viserys' birth. As much as he told himself that it didn't matter, he could not help but feel anger and humiliation, and resentment against the offense when he was escorted to his father's private chambers, dark because the curtains were pulled down.

The first man he saw in the solar was the eunuch. As usual, he wondered what was this power behind the fat and the perfumes. How could he have achieved such influence, sown such trust in a broken mind ready to distrust and suspect anyone? When Varys tried to have a discreet look at the bundle in the wet nurse's hands, Rhaegar deliberately reached over and shielded his daughter from view by pretending to arrange the cloth around her face.

"She's lovely," his mother breathed as soon as he approached. She was so impatient that she had come forward to look at the infant.

"She is, isn't she?" Rhaegar agreed.

Rhaella tool the babe from the wet nurse and cuddled her close. "You're so beautiful," she murmured, kissing her. Then, with her own hands, she brought the babe over to Aerys. Rhaegar could see her holding her breath. He did so himself, praying that a miracle would occur and his father would be restored to his old self, if only for a moment.

Aerys sniffed with disgust. A long finger with impossibly long, dry and broken nails cut the air, as if he wanted to save himself of the horror of having the newborn near. "She," he announced, "smells Dornish."

Rhaegar was quite surprised not by the protective anger that filled him but the feeling of having something confirmed. No. There would be no healing. No mending the relationship. And no future for the kingdom if things went on like this.

 


	3. Almost the Death of Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to everyone who commented!

" **Poor?" said Dunk, startled. "The king's son?"**

" **The king's fourth son," said Raymun.**

It shamed him to admit it but in the beginning, he didn't pay much attention, didn't even realize what was going on. He had grown up in the shadows of his mother's many unsuccessful pregnancies and births but Myriah had always delivered her babes so easily that without even giving it a thought, Daeron had become complacent, accepting that it would be always like that, so it was an entire day before he realized that this time, it was different.

Myriah didn't allow her women let him in the birthing chamber, terrified by the idea of him seeing her like this, so he had to listen from the antechamber. He had never heard her scream like this, even at Baelor's birth which had been the hardest one, being her first.

All around him, handmaidens were running with buckets of water, brought in fresh linens and took out others, soiled with liquids Daeron would rather not imagine the source of. For hours and hours. Myriah finally stopped screaming but it was because she had screamed herself hoarse already. By the voices inside, Daeron could judge that things were not going as they should. He prayed that Myriah could not hear the dread they were struggling to conceal.

"What's going on?" he asked when a midwife came out with a new bundle of linens. "What's wrong?"

The woman started wringing her hands. "I don't know. As far as we can say, the babe is positioned perfectly. It looks like her pains are strong enough – but they aren't doing anything to help the babe go out. Maybe her womb had grown feeble. Sometimes, it happens when a woman gives birth too many times in too short a period."

Daeron bit his lip, his worry consuming his entire being. He hadn't realized that either but in the few years that they had spent here, Myriah had become his entire world. The thought that he might lose her, that she might die the way so many women did every day, that the babe might lose its life as well cast a black veil before his eyes.

At seeing the terror in his eyes, the woman added hurriedly, "Your Grace, we're doing all that we can."

He only nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

It was the early morning when the screams suddenly stopped. Daeron waited for a short while but no one was coming out, although he could hear the hushed voices coming from the inside. Myriah's wasn't among them.

Unable to restrain himself anymore, he threw the door open. His first look was at Myriah, still on the birthing chair: her face drawn and her lips pressed together, she was staring intently at the table where the maesters were working on a white bundle. Just by looking at her, Daeron felt her fear infecting him.

"What's going on?" he asked, going to the table.

One of the maesters was trying to open the newborn's mouth. The entire body of the babe was spasming, the eyes squinting, the tiny red face betraying an immense effort.

"He's having some kind of seizure," one of the women around Myriah whispered.

For a moment, Daeron kept staring at the maester trying to help his son. _But he'll break his jaw_ , he suddenly thought when the force the maester applied to open the small mouth looked too great. He went nearer. Something about the spasms was not quite right. He had seen the likes of…

He reached out and pushed the maester away. Everyone gasped; without paying them any mind, Daeron loosened the swaddling, opened it. and the babe immediately started waving his arms and kicking. The spasms went away; fighting a laugher of relief, Daeron shook his head. "Not even an hour old, and already having a mind of your own, eh?" he said. "Don't do it again."

He reached to cover the small body, at least that. His son gave him a look like, "You can't be serious; this is swaddling and I don't have anything to do with swaddling."

"Fine," Daeron sighed and looked at the women. "Wrap him in linen. But take care not to restrain his arms and legs, for the Seven's sake!"

To everyone's enormous relief, this time the babe didn't protest and snuggled happily into the arms of the nursemaid. Now, all eyes went to Myriah. Daeron realized that she must have not expelled the afterbirth yet if they were so worried.

One of the maesters went to a side table and fetched a poultice, in case that she started bleeding.

Myriah moaned, once, and it was over – the afterbirth slipped out.

One. Two. Three. Someone was slowly counting to twenty.

No more blood appeared.

Now that he was sure she was going to live and willing to let her have her privacy as the women bathed her, Daeron went to the newborn again. In the fright for his life and his mother's life, he had paid almost no attention to the details but now they hit him violently.

"A boy," he murmured, stricken. "What are we going to do with a boy?"

* * *

**There must be one more.**

During the long, anxiety-filled days this birth took, Rhaegar wasn't worried about the child. Not for a moment. The red comet was all the charm and confidence this babe needed. The Prince Who Was Promised was sure to arrive safely. With Rhaenys, Rhaegar had felt panicked that she might not make it our alive but now he knew better. This child had a greater destiny to fulfill. Death of suffocation in his mother's womb that claimed the lives of so many babes was not it. No, it was Elia that he we was worried about. She was so frail even under the best of circumstances. Could she really make it out of the birthing chamber with no lasting effects once again? His father would rejoice if she didn't.

He spent some time in Rhaenys' room. She was just tackling the art of crawling and she was doing it in a very funny way. As always, she was a joy to his eyes but he found out that today, he had no patience for her childish babbling of the few words she could say. The Prince Who Was Promised would be born today. Somehow, the greatness of the moment did not allow diminishing the day with simple daily things like children's entertainment. _Tomorrow_ , he promised himself. _I'll come to Rhaenys tomorrow._ _And when Aegon is older, I'll watch them play for hours._ I will. But these thoughts soon retreated, chased away by the grim realization that in his children, there might not be much time for playing. They had to be prepared for their roles. A hero's path was never an easy one. That was how heroes were made.

In Elia's chambers, worry had taken constant residence. At one point or another, everyone in the castle had found a reason to go through the courtyard that the Princess' chambers were overlooking. Her windows were open to admit the fresh air and in the sounds coming from behind the heavy curtains, people were trying to guess how it was going, whether they would soon see a prince or a funeral pyre.

Somewhere during the third day, the thought of the Stranger crept into Rhaegar's mind as well. Not about Aegon – about Elia. It terrified him, yet at the same time it gave him a thrill that he was repulsed by. Over and over, the thought sneaked back into his head, the thought of what couldn't, shouldn't ever be: Elia dead… he free to wed again… Baratheon being compensated… He felt so ashamed, so foul. His lady wife was the kindest soul he had ever met. He did not want her to die. He certainly would not rejoice in building a new life over her dead body, he would not. And yet he could not stop imagining…

Elia's trial ended in the beginning of the fourth day of her labour when she finally gave birth to the boy Rhaegar had expected. She was so exhausted that now, when the babe was about to leave her body, she actually couldn't do anything to help him. One of the maesters threw his entire considerable weight at her belly and a midwife slid her hands into Elia's body. Her scream was so tortured that it was heard even in the hall but the child was pulled out and she felt incredibly grateful that she had been helped. She closed her eyes, oblivious to the voices yelling at her not to go to sleep since that was the greatest danger for new mothers. She didn't even feel the slaps the maesters resorted to when voices didn't help.

She did not saw Rhaegar entering the room, giving her a long look of relief, standing beside the bed as the chief midwife was giving him the swaddled babe. Rhaegar stared at his son, smiling. Aegon was clearly healthy and vigorous, all that could be expected in a prince. The hair and complexion delighted him as well. No one could say that this child looked anything but a Targaryen. That he was not worthy…

He looked at Elia and felt an enormous swell of gratitude. She had done her duty and even surpassed it. Now, in the light of the day, the thoughts he had harboured at night looked so surreal, like a nightmare. Of course he did not want her to die. She was his friend, his confidant. He doubted that anyone could make a better queen. Not Lyanna Stark, for sure, as delightful as she was. And no one else could mother Rhaenys and Aegon. No, things had taken the best possible turn…

… until the truth came out. Aegon was not a day old yet. Elia had not woken up.

There would be no third head. Not from Elia.

All of a sudden, hope bloomed once again.

 


	4. Take It  to the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to everyone who commented!

**In the last years of his reign, Prince Daeron proved the chief obstacle to Aegon's misrule. Some lords of the realm clearly saw opportunity in the increasingly corpulent, gluttonous king who could be convinced to part with honors, offices, and lands for the promise of pleasures. Others, who condemned the king's behavior, began to flock to Prince Daeron…**

When you had known one long enough, their face was as easy for you to read as a book. The moment Ser Rogar Redtree entered his solar, Daeron knew that his old companion would tell him something that he'd rather go without.

"They insist that you receive them," Rogar said without preamble.

The Prince didn't need to ask who _they_ were. Not because he had any idea of their identities. He didn't. But there was only one kind of people Rogar spoke of with such tone.

"What has he done now?" Daeron asked tiredly, bracing himself to hear of a new law being passed of giving lordship to those who gave their daughters for Aegon's lust, or maybe an army being gathered to conquer Sothoros…

In his old friend's eyes, there was worry that immediately afflicted him as well. "I don't know," Rogar said. "They insist that they speak to you alone. But I'm telling you, my lord, this isn't good. I've rarely seen them so troubled."

"Father is always troubled lately," a young voice piped in. "That's what Mother says."

The two men looked at the bottom of the room where two little boys were playing with puppies. In fact, they were… Ser Rogar squinted to make sure he was seeing right. Daeron only sighed and shook his head. "They've been so quiet that I forgot they were here," he muttered. "Always a bad sign."

He went to them and unceremoniously took the pastries the four of them were sharing, meeting the protesting cries with a stern look. "You'll get the puppies sick," he said. "They don't eat sweets."

To Ser Rogar, it looked like they did, so it was no wonder that Daeron's youngest sons used the same argument, quite articulately at that. Maybe Ilena was right and younger children did learn everything at early age by imitating their older siblings.

Clearly putting an end to the issue – and not one the children liked, by the look of it, - Daeron returned to him. "Come here," he said. "I don't want them to overhear anything."

"Do they understand at all?" Ser Rogar wondered, following him to a corner.

"No," Daeron replied dryly. "But they memorize and repeat when I least expect it, and unfortunately they can speak quite clearly. With children around, your conversations basically become their hostages." He smiled faintly. "Soon, you'll learn that by yourself."

"So, we have people coming from King's Landing," he went on, not taking a seat. It was clear that he'd go out to receive the newcomers. But for now, he wanted to learn as much as possible. Ser Rogar did notice, however, that the spot Daeron had chosen let him keep an eye on his sons. "Are you sure you haven't heard… anything?"

One of Ser Rogar's many talents was his ability to keep himself and by extension, Daeron, apprised of most things that happened in the Seven Kingdoms. Most important things, at least. Daeron gladly sponsored his broad net of informants, many of whom had wormed their place in the very heart of Aegon's court without ever falling under suspicion, unlike the Prince of Dragonstone's highborn allies.

"There has been some talk about dragons," Ser Rogar said reluctantly. "And Dorne."

Daeron went white. "The Seven save us," he muttered. "What is he going to do now?"

The hazel and purple eyes met with the same anger. Like Daeron, Rogar was wed to a Dornishwoman, one of Myriah's favourite ladies-in-waiting. She was great with child, the first one after years of marriage, and she had to give birth in a world where her homeland and that of Rogar's fought each other _. If I didn't know him, I would have thought he planned it this way, to spoil it all for Rogar and Ilena_ , Daeron thought. Of course, knowing Aegon didn't mean that it was beneath his father to do such a thing. It simply meant that Rogar and Ilena weren't important enough for him to include them in his consideration. Maekar's birth had taken place in another attempt to repeat the Young Dragon's achievement – and Daeron was sure it had not been a coincidence.

"Nothing good, I'd wager," Rogar said darkly. "I am sorry, I know he's your father and our king but…"

Daeron lifted a hand. "Don't apologize," he said. "The fact that you're up to your neck in this foul business along with me entitles you to state your opinion freely."

He squared his shoulders. "Let's go to them," he said. "Just wait for a minute…"

Despite the gravity of the situation, Rogar Redtree could not help but smile as Daeron ordered for his sons' attendants to be brought over. Clearly, small children were not allowed to be left alone even for a moment. Watching one of them trying to lift a puppy by the tail, he could understand that reasoning.

Of course, the newcomers had already been offered nourishments and the chance to wash the grim of the travel off. They had only accepted the latter. Recognizing the importance of their arrival, Princess Myriah had arranged for their meals to be brought over to a smaller, more private dining room. Upon entering, the two men found her with their guests, the perfect hostess, a polite but remote one which was a good thing, given the fact that one of their guests was no other than Robar Baratheron, the Lord of Storm's End who, despite being a supporter of Daeron and keen on living in peace with Dorne, borne Dornishmen no love. Ilena was nowhere to be seen and Daeron and Rogar supposed that Myriah had sent her away, so she would not have to bear Baratheon's dislike.

The other two arrivals were no less disturbing. Lord Grey, King Viserys' Master of Ships whom Aegon had immediately stripped of his post. Lord Darry whom Lady Melissa Blackwood had wed after Aegon had grown tired of her. Unlike Robar Baratheon, those two were men who would not undertake such a journey just because they passionately disagreed with a decision of the King's.

"Welcome to Dragonstone, my lords," Daeron spoke. "I trust you were welcomed as befitting your rank?"

They muttered that they had been. Ignoring the meaningful looks they gave Myriah, Daeron took a seat and asked quite bluntly what was going on. The answer curdled his blood.

It had, indeed, something to do with dragons. Not real dragons, of course. Dragons built of wood and iron, with pumps that would bathe Dorne in wildfire… and any hope of ever ending the hostility. _Damnation takes him_ , Daeron thought. His mother would have been terrified to know that he didn't even beg forgiveness from the Seven for this thought that had been most sincere.

"And he intends to take them there by sea?" he asked, wondering whether there even were ships sturdy enough to bear this kind of burden.

"No," Lord Darry replied. "He intends to drag them through the Boneway."

_Blessed be the gods for this small mercy_ , Daeron thought when Robar Baratheon spoke. "Your Grace, you know I bear Dornishmen no love." Here, he glanced at the Princess but did not apologize. "I have spilled my blood more than once in warring with them. But even the Young Dragon could not keep them. They don't want us and won't suffer us there. This scheme of the King's is only a new way to lay waste upon our lands – and it will be us, the Stormlanders, along with the Reach, that will suffer most. I will not stand for this. If we leave your father to his devices, he'll ruin the Seven Kingdoms in no time at all. Just say the word, and we'll make sure that his unworthy reign will end soon."

Daeron's jaw clenched. He understood very well what word was expected of him. He looked at Grey and Darry. They nodded grimly.

For a long time, he stayed silent, contemplating the various possibilities. If he took a stand against his father now, that would only lead to more bloodshed. The dragons might not be turned against Dorne but against Daeron's allies, for sure. And for all his excesses, Aegon still enjoyed many supporters – sorry excuse of human beings Daeron would take care of as soon as he mounted the Iron Throne but numerous anyway.

It would not be long until this moment came. And he could make sure that the dragons never reached Dorne anyway. But if he took arms against his father now, no one could say what the outcome would be. Myriah and the children might pay the price for his dare, along with countless others.

Should he declare against Aegon, he'd better be ready to take the fight to the very end. There would be no reprieve, no quarter from either side. Daeron would not get his people in something that he could not get them out of. Not while there were other means.

He did not say the word.

* * *

**Had any whiff of proof come into their hands to show that Prince Rhaegar was conspiring against his father, King Aerys' loyalists would most certainly have used it to bring about the prince's downfall.**

… **The crowning of the Stark girl, who was by all accounts a wild and boyish young thing, with none of Princess Elia's delicate beauty, could only have been meant to win the allegiance of Winterfell to Prince Rhaegar's cause, Symond Staunton suggested to the king.**

"Are you sure about this?"

Lewyn Martell's eyes were dark and graver than Rhaegar had ever seen them. His voice was low, as if he feared that there might be traitors here, under Rhaegar's very roof. His caution angered Rhaegar, for Lewyn was anything but that. Should he start now, when Rhaegar was about to finally start implementing a plan and not only vaguely talking about it or doing small things to subtly undermine the danger his father was to everyone?

"Yes," he said, deliberately not lowering his voice. He would not hide in his own home. And he trusted his people. Still, Lewyn flinched. "I am. This is a chance to get them together and talk of the most important things, instead of trusting ravens and codes. You are against important things being trusted ravens as well."

Lewyn drew a hand across his forehead. "Yes, but this… it's different. Are you sure the money cannot be traced back to you?"

Rhaegar sighed, irritated. "Yes, I am. But even if it can, what of it? Sponsoring a tourney held by one of the Houses that have always been most loyal to the Crown is no crime and no one can prove any bad intention."

"Do you think your father will _need_ any kind of proof if he gets it in his head that it's another case of you conspiring against him?" Lewyn asked. "Do you realize what kind of storm you can end up unleashing if you make a small mistake?"

Rhaegar had some idea, as much as it was possible, with the way his father got worse every day. But it did not matter. Because he wasn't going to make a mistake.

"What is he going to do?" he asked. "Do you really think he'll actually do something against me? Even Aegon the Unworthy didn't go this far."

Lewyn and Elia shared a look of dismay, the same thought crossing both their minds at the same time: Rhaegar's love of books might serve all of them ill here. One had to know the past and learn from it – but not mistake it for the present. Rhaegar's attempt to make sense of the realm's current situation by comparing it to an entirely different situation scared them quite badly.

In Elia's arms, Rhaenys whimpered.

"Aegon was an unworthy." Elia said softly, rocking the babe. "Not mad."

Rhaegar turned to her and raised a hand to her cheek, not quite touching it. He rarely did. "I know," he said. "That's why we have to take care of my father immediately. We cannot afford to wait like Daeron the Good did. I might never get another chance like this one."

Elia looked down. "I know," she said. "I just… I guess I just want to be sure that you know… there would be no coming back. If you started making alliances at the tourney, you'll have to fight your father to the very end, with whatever means you have at your disposal. It won't leave place for anything else in your life."

Her apprehensions had taken even her aback, so she could not fault him for being surprised as well. Wasn't that what she had wished for since she had first realized just how unstable her good-father was? Yet now when the chance to start implementing their plans was so near, Rhaegar's attitude scared her. She shared his goals but his certainty that he'd win unsettled her deeply. He took the upcoming strife as a necessary hardship and not something that could easily go both ways. And that meant that for all his cleverness, he might not understand what he would be facing. What _they_ would be facing. Elia held the babe closer.

Rhaegar nodded. "I will make the changes that are needed," he said. "Now. And the new beginning would come."

Elia tried to believe him, yet she could not help but notice that he seemed to give no thought to the past that would cling to the future as it was wont to. One could not shake the past so easily. And not in a single moment. Rhaegar had the brains and heart to implement the change they all desired. Elia prayed that he'd only have the endurance he needed, as well.

* * *

 

"He did what?"

Her voice echoed in the bedchamber, a shrill and unpleasant sound that made her cringe. But that was just a fleeting thought because her mind was now angled toward things that were more important. More humiliating. More deadly.

"He disappeared with that girl?"

Now, her voice was dull, entirely even.

Her uncle took her hand. "He did."

Elia wanted to shout that it was impossible. Rhaegar wouldn't humiliate her like this. Not again. Not for the same little whore who batted her eyelids at him and played it all innocent. And to think that the moment the girl had received the crown of roses Elia had pitied her! Lyanna Stark had looked such a surprised, wretched little thing, confused and not knowing how to react. Not daring to look Elia in the eye. In less than a year, she had gathered enough effrontery to run away with Elia's husband.

But that was a minor thought in the whirlwind overtaking her mind. Rhaegar had sworn that it had been just a fleeting thing, a mistake made on the spur of the moment. As painful as it was to realize that she had not even figured in her husband's considerations, Elia had tried to forgive him. She had believed that he was trying to make his life with her, with no place for the girl. He had been so happy during her pregnancy and at Aegon's birth.

The birth. That was it. Elia wanted to scream, so she did. "He went after his damned third head of the dragon!" she shrieked. "He's been obsessed with that musty prophecy ever since he saw that blasted comet. And now, knowing that I could not give him the third head, he felt justified in going after her. Damn you, Rhaegar!"

She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. Lewyn pushed a goblet against her and she drank. The tea helped her parched mouth but did nothing for her fear. The events of the tournament played back in front of her – the pride in Rhaegar's victory, the anticipation, the dumb disbelief when he passed her over, the stunned silence, and Aerys' suspicions after…

And now Rhaegar had disappeared. With the girl who had furthered the rumours of a plot, of all people.

"We have to leave," she said sharply, pushing the goblet aside. Her fingers shook so badly that she spilled it all over the sheets and her nightgown. "Now!"

"Leave?" her uncle asked. "Elia, you're bedridden. You cannot go anywhere."

"I am healthy already. I am rising from this bed. Don't you believe me? Just watch!"

She kicked the coverings aside, stepped on the floor and keeled dangerously, her head spinning, her limbs heavy and uncooperating. Lewyn steadied her but when he tried to lay her back on the bed, she pushed him away weakly.

"It doesn't matter! We have to go to Sunspear! Go to the children's rooms. Tell the servants to pack up. Only the most important things. We have to get out of here before the King gets to us!"

He didn't need any explanations. With Rhaegar gone with Lyanna Stark – _Lyanna Stark_ – Aerys would demand explanation from the people he _could_ get his hands upon. Rhaegar's wife. And he bore no love to his Dornish grandchildren either.

"Eat something," he said. "I'll go to the harbour and order a ship. When I come back, I want all of you ready. The children. You. All those who accompanied us here."

"And those Rhaegar didn't think to take along," Elia insisted. "We cannot leave them to Aerys' wrath."

There was a knock at the door. They both looked up. "Come in," Elia said.

A pale-faced handmaiden appeared and curtsied. "Your Grace," she said. "There's a fleet coming into the harbour. They fly the royal banner."

Elia and Lewyn looked at each other.

They were late, late, late.

 


	5. Drawing Up the Balance-Sheet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to everyone who commented. Thanks for staying with me for so long.

… **His marriage to Mariah of Dorne – now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms – had been happy and fruitful….**

At this time of night, Dragonstone was as quiet as a sleeping dragon, the way it never was in broad daylight. The sea roared dully, as if the great beast was snoring. The hissing and spitting of the volcano came off like rumbling. Myriah could hardly believe that the peaceful abode beneath her feet was her own bustling home.

"Are you ready to go back down?"

She hesitated but finally turned back. A few hours ago, the two of them had had a blazing row that had made all their attendants suddenly remember that they had some very important things to do. She still had no intention to yield to his arguments because she was convinced that she was in the right. Unfortunately, he had no intention of yielding either, so she smiled and said, "I am."

He wrapped an arm about her waist and they stared together into the night, their last difference of mind buried into the deep pit they threw the problems that could not be resolved into their marriage in.

"I am sorry," Myriah said and he gave her a look of surprise. "About the plate," she elaborated, and he laughed.

"Ah, I see."

Myriah's fury had cost them a fine, breakable plate imported from Essos, one of her favourites. Daeron liked beautiful things as well, so he, too, had been sorry to see it go.

"I have an offer for you," he said, smiling. "Let's have this day cost us a bed, as well."

She gasped and laughed. "You'll make a fine Dornishman, Daeron!"

"The blame is all yours, my lady," he replied gravely and leaned over to kiss her.

A little later, they went to have a look at the children's rooms, as they always did before they retired.

The echo of their footsteps in the now silent castle must have alerted Baelor that they were coming because when they entered, the candle at his bedside was illuminating closed eyes and peaceful face. The uneven breathing did not quite fit the image and a second look revealed that the boy was entirely dressed but his parents decided to overlook this. Still, Myriah could not resist and asked softly, "Are you sleeping?"

"Yes," Baelor said immediately and Myriah and Daeron didn't look at each other, lest they laughed, ads they leaned over to kiss him.

Aerys had fallen asleep with a big book opened on his chest – so big that it was unfathomable how he could sleep under its weight. And why he had chosen this one was even a bigger mystery – although he could read better than any other four year old Myriah had encountered, the text was too elaborated for him, surely? When Daeron removed the book, the boy stirred but did not wake up.

As usual, Rhaegel had managed to kick his sheets away. They kept his rooms a little cooler than the other children's, but now Daeron and Myriah shuddered with real cold and reached for a lighter cover, hoping that it would not be hot enough to make Rhaegel push it away as well.

The silence in Maekar's room was a blessing. A few days ago, his nursemaid had been suspended because she was so far along that she could not possibly keep up with a curious almost one-year-old who was thrilled with his new ability to move around the room and take various subjects in his hand. He had not taken her replacement well and the girl looked downright scared as she bowed to Daeron and Myriah.

"We only came to have a look at him, Marise," Myriah said kindly. "I hope we're not disturbing you."

She was doing her best to make the girl relax, acutely aware that she was terrified that she had displeased them by being unable to care for Maekar properly. But with three older children who had been this age as well, Myriah realized that it was no failing of Marise's part. Maekar just needed time to get used to her – and she to him.

"N-no, Your Grace," the girl stuttered. "He's sleeping," she added unnecessarily.

As Myriah was leaning over her son to kiss him, noticing that he was clean, sweet-smelling, and not overdressed for the cold, Daeron looked at the sheet of paper Marise had left aside at their entering.

"What's this?" he asked, surprised. It would have never occurred to him that she could read.

The girl blushed. "I don't know, Your Grace. Prince Baelor gave it to me but I cannot read and…"

"May I?" Daeron said.

She gave him the paper readily.

His chuckle brought Myriah at his side. They started reading together their son's attempt to help the nursemaid by explaining Maekar's needs to her – all those things he would have said if he could talk. _Dont talk to me as if I am stupid I andastant everyting. I know you want to sing but I just want to sleep. Give me my shuus I can put dem on myself. Cant I go araund stripped? Cloting is irksam. Dont pull your hair ander the cap. Give it to me. I wont eat bread in milk. I want a blad orange. Barefut. Yes. I wil not safer shoos._

The list went on and on, Baelor's attempt to be helpful. The fact that at five, he was perceptive enough to get a grasp of what a babe wanted was amazing and the fact that he had devoted so much time to writing, never a favourite activity of his, just to make it easier for Marise made their hearts swell with pride.

"He was trying to help you," Myriah said. "Tomorrow, I'll read it to you, I promise."

They made it out in time before the laugher they had barely contained burst out.

* * *

… **lighting a fire that would consume his house and kin and all those he loved – and half the realm besides.**

It was said that buildings were possessed of memory of their own but if so, the walls of the Red Keep had not learned this lesson. The crowned stag looked at natural on them as the three-headed dragon had, and the soft snow falling around wad burying like a merciful shroud the last remnants of the reign of a fallen dynasty. When spring came, the land would be reborn with new life and new king.

Deep inside the Red Keep, a small kitten howled.

**The End**

 


End file.
